The Perfect Creature Read online

  “Such as?” I asked.

  “Nothing very definite,” he admitted. “But when one puts them all together ... After all, there's no smoke without—”

  “All right, let's have it,” I invited him.

  “I think,” he said, with impressive earnest­ness, “I think we are on the track of some­thing big here. Very likely some­thing that will at last stir people's con­sciences to the iniq­uities which are practised under the cloak of scien­tific research. Do you know what I think is happen­ing on our very door­step?”

  “I'll buy it,” I told him, patiently.

  “I think we have to deal with a super-vivi­section­ist!” he said, wagging a drama­tic finger at me.

  I frowned. “I don't get that,” I told him. “A thing is either vivi- or it isn't. Super-vivi- just doesn't —”

  “Tcha!” said Alfred. At least, it was that kind of noise. “What I mean is that we are up against a man who is out­raging nature, abusing God's crea­tures, wantonly distort­ing the forms of ani­mals until they are no longer recog­niz­able, or only in parts, as what they were before he started distorting them,” he announ­ced, involvedly.

  At this point I began to get a line on the truly Alfre­dian theory that was being pro­pounded this time. His imagi­nation had got its teeth well in, and, though later events were to show that it was not biting quite deeply enough, I laughed:

  “I see it,” I said, “I've read The Island of Doctor Moreau, too. You expect to go up to the Grange and be greeted by a horse walk­ing on its hind legs and discuss­ing the weather; or perhaps you hope a super-dog will open the door to you, and in­quire your name?

  “A thrilling idea, Alfred. But this is real life, you know. Since there has been a com­plaint, we must try to investi­gate it, but I'm afraid you're going to be dread­fully disappointed, old man, if you're looking forward to going into a house filled with the sickly fumes of ether and hideous with the cries of tortured animals. Just come off it a bit, Alfred. Come down to earth.”

  But Alfred was not to be deflated so easily. His fanta­sies were an impor­tant part of his life, and, while he was a little irri­tated by my discern­ing the source of his inspi­ra­tion, he was not quenched. Instead, he went on turning the thing over in his mind, and adding a few extra touches to it here and there.

  “Why turtles?” I heard him mutter. “It only seems to make it more compli­cated, to choose reptiles.”

  He contem­plated that for some moments, then he added:

  “Arms. Arms and hands! Now where on earth would he get a pair of arms from?”

  His eyes grew still larger and more excited as he thought about that.

  “Now, now! Keep a hold on it!” I advised him.

  All the same, it was an awk­ward, uneasy land of ques­tion ...

  The following after­noon Alfred and I presented our­selves at the lodge of Mem­bury Grange, and gave our names to the suspi­cious-looking man who lived there to guard the entrance. He shook his head to indi­cate that we hadn't a hope of approach­ing more closely, but he did pick up the telep­hone.

  I had a some­what unworthy hope that his discour­aging atti­tude might be con­firmed. The thing ought, of course, to be followed up, if only to pacify the villagers, but I could have wished that Alfred had had longer to go off the boil. At present, his agi­ta­tion and expect­ation were, if any­thing, increased. The fancies of Poe and Zola are mild compared with the products of Alfred's imagi­na­tion powered by suit­able fuel. All night long, it seemed, the most horrid night­mares had galloped through his sleep, and he was now in a vein where such phrases as the ‘wanton tortu­ring of our dumb friends’ by ‘the fiend­ish wielders of the knife’, and ‘the shudder­ing cries of a million quiver­ing vic­tims ascend­ing to high heaven’ came tripp­ing off his tongue auto­ma­tically. It was awkward. If I had not agreed to accom­pany him, he would certainly have gone alone, in which case he would be likely to come to some kind of harm on account of the gener­alized accusa­tions of may­hem, muti­la­tion and sadism with which he would undoubt­edly open the conver­sation.

  In the end I had persuaded him that his course would be to keep his eyes cunningly open for more evi­dence while I conducted the inter­view. Later, if he was not satis­fied, he would be able to say his piece. I just had to hope that he would be able to with­stand the inter­nal pressure.

  The guardian turned back to us from the telep­hone, wearing a surprised expression.

  “He says as he'll see you!” he told us, as though not quite certain he had heard aright. “You'll find him in the new wing — that red-brick part, there.”

  The new wing, into which the poach­ing Bill had spied, turned out to be much bigger than I had expec­ted. It covered a ground-area quite as large as that of the origi­nal house, but was only one storey high. A door in the end of it opened as we drove up, and a tall, loosely-clad figure with an untidy beard stood waiting for us there.

  “Good Lord!” I said, as we approached. “So that was why we got in so easily! I'd no idea you were that Dixon. Who'd have thought it?”

  “Come to that,” he retorted, “you seem to be in a sur­pris­ing occu­pation for a man of intelli­gence, your­self.”

  I remem­bered my com­panion.

  “Alfred,” I said, “I'd like to intro­duce you to Doctor Dixon — once a poor usher who tried to teach me some­thing about biology at school, but later, by popu­lar repute, the inheri­tor of millions, or there­abouts.”

  Alfred looked suspi­cious. This was obviously wrong: a move towards frater­ni­za­tion with the enemy at the very outset! He nodded un­graciously, and did not offer to shake hands.

  “Come in!” Dixon invited.

  He showed us into a comfor­table study-cum-office which tended to con­firm the rumours of his inheri­tance. I sat down in a magni­ficent easy-chair.

  “You'll very likely have gathered from your watch­man that we're here in an official way,” I said. “So perhaps it would be better to get. the busi­ness over before we cele­brate the reunion. It'd be a kind­ness to relieve the strain on my friend Alfred.”

  Doctor Dixon nodded, and cast a specu­lative glance at Alfred who had no inten­tion of compro­mising himself by sitting down.

  “I'll give you the report just as we had it,” I told him, and pro­ceeded to do so. When I reached a descrip­tion of the turtle-like creatures he looked some­what relieved.

  “Oh, so that's what happened to them,” he said.

  “Ah!” cried Alfred, his voice going up into a squeak with excite­ment. “So you admit it! You admit that you are respon­sible for those two unhappy creatures!”

  Dixon looked at him, wonder­ingly.

  “I was responsible for them — but I didn't know they were un­happy: how did you?”

  Alfred disregarded the question.

  “That's what we want,” he squeaked. “He admits that he—”

  “Alfred,” I told him coldly. “Do be quiet, and stop dancing about. Let me get on with it.”

  I got on with it for a few more sen­ten­ces, but Alfred was build­ing up too much pressure to hold. He cut right in:

  “Where — where did you get the arms? Just tell me where they came from?” he deman­ded, with deadly meaning.

  “Your friend seems a little over — er, a little dramatic,” remarked Doctor Dixon.

  “Look, Alfred,” I said severely, “just let me get finished, will you? You can intro­duce your note of ghoulery later on.”

  When I ended, it was with an excuse that seemed neces­sary. I said to Dixon: “I'm sorry to intrude on you with all this, but you see how we stand. When supported alle­ga­tions are laid before us, we have no choice but to investi­gate. Obviously this is some­thing quite out of the usual run, but I'm sure you'll be able to clear it up satis­fac­torily for us. And now, Alfred,” I added, turning to him, “I believe you have a ques­tion or two to ask, but do try to remem­ber that our host's name is Dixon, and not Moreau.”<
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  Alfred leapt, as from a slipped leash.

  “What I want to know is the mean­ing, the reason and the method of these out­rages against nature. I demand to be told by what right this man con­siders him­self justi­fied in turning normal creatures into un­natural mock­eries of natural forms.”

  Doctor Dixon nodded gently.

  “A com­pre­hen­sive in­quiry — though not too com­pre­hen­sibly ex­pressed,” he said. “I deplore the loose, recurrent use of the word ‘nature’ — and would point out that the word ‘unnatural’ is a vulga­rism which does not even make sense. Obviously, if a thing has been done at all it was in some­one's nature to do it, and in the nature of the mate­rial to accept what­ever was done. One can act only with­in the limits of one's nature: that is an axiom.”

  “A lot of hair­split­ting isn't going to —” began Alfred, but Dixon conti­nued smoothly:

  “Nevertheless, I think I under­stand you to mean that my nature has prompted me to use certain mate­rial in a manner which your pre­judices do not approve. Would that be right?”

  “There may be lots of ways of put­ting it, but I call it vivi­sect­ion — vivisection!” said Alfred, relish­ing the word like a good curse. “You may have a licence. But there have been things going on here that will require a very con­vin­cing expla­na­tion indeed to stop us taking the matter to the police.'

  Doctor Dixon nodded.

  “I rather thought you might have some such idea: and I'd prefer you did not. Before long, the whole thing will be an­nounced by me, and become public know­ledge. Mean­while, I want at least two, possibly three, months to get my findings ready for publi­ca­tion. When I have explained, I think you will under­stand my posi­tion better.”

  He paused, thought­fully eyeing Alfred who did not look like a man intend­ing to under­stand any­thing. He went on:

  “The crux of this is that I have not, as you are sus­pect­ing, either grafted, or re­adjust­ed, nor in any way dis­tort­ed living forms. I have built them.”

  For a moment, neither of us grasped the signifi­cance of that — though Alfred thought he had it.

  “Ha! You can quibble,” he said, “but there had to be a basis. You must have had some kind of living ani­mal to start with — and one which you wickedly muti­lated to pro­duce these horrors.”

  But Dixon shook his head.

  “No, I mean what I said. I have built — and then I have induced a kind of life into what I have built.”

  We gaped. I said, uncert­ainly: “Are you really claim­ing that you can create a living creature?”

  “Pooh!” he said. “Of course I can, so can you. Even Alfred here can do that, with the help of a female of the spe­cies. What I am telling you is that I can ani­mate the inert because I have found how to induce the — or, at any rate, a — life-force.”

  The lengthy pause that followed that was broken at last by Alfred.

  “I don't believe it,” he said, loudly. “It isn't possi­ble that you, here in this one-eyed village, should have solved the mystery of life. You're just trying to hoax us because you're afraid of what we shall do.”

  Dixon smiled calmly.

  “I said that I had found a life-force. There may be dozens of other kinds for all I know. I can under­stand that it's diffi­cult for you to believe; but, after all, why not? Some­one was bound to find one of them some­where sooner or later. What's more sur­pris­ing to me is that this one wasn't discov­ered before.”

  But Alfred was not to be soothed.

  “I don't believe it,” he repeated. “Nor will any­body else unless you produce proofs — if you can.”

  “Of course,” agreed Dixon. “Who would take it on trust? Though I'm afraid that when you examine my present speci­mens you may find the con­struc­tion a little crude at first. Your friend, Nature, puts in such a lot of un­neces­sary work that can be simpli­fied out.”

  “Of course, in the matter of arms, that seems to worry you so much, if I could have obtained real arms imme­diately after the death of the owner I might have been able to use them — I'm not sure whether it wouldn't have been more trouble though. However, such things are not usually handy, and the building of simpli­fied parts is not really difficult — a mixture of engi­neer­ing, chemis­try and common sense. Indeed, it has been quite possible for some time, but with­out the means of ani­ma­ting them it was scarcely worth doing. One day they may be made finely enough to replace a lost limb, but a very compli­cated tech­nique will have to be evolved before that can be done.”

  “As for your suspicion that my speci­mens suffer, Mr. Weston, I assure you that they are coddled — they have cost me a great deal of money and work. And, in any case, it would be diffi­cult for you to prose­cute me for cruelty to an animal hitherto un­heard of, with habits un­known.”

  “I am not con­vinced,” said Alfred, stoutly.

  The poor fellow was, I think, too upset by the threat to his theory for the true magni­tude of Dixon's claim to reach him.

  “Then, perhaps a demon­stra­tion...?” Dixon suggested. “If you will follow me...”

  Bill's peeping exploit had prepared us for the sight of the steel-barred cages in the labo­ra­tory, but not for many of the other things we found there — one of them was the smell.

  Doctor Dixon apolo­gized as we choked and gasped:

  “I forgot to warn you about the pre­serva­tives.”

  “It's reassuring to know that that's all they are,” I said, between coughs.

  The room must have been getting on for a hundred feet in length, and about thirty high. Bill had certainly seen precious little through his chink in the curtain, and I stared in amaze­ment at the quan­tities of appa­ratus gathered there. There was a rough divi­sion into sect­ions: chemis­try in one corner, bench and lathes in another, elec­tri­cal appa­ra­tus grouped at one end and so on. In one of several bays stood an opera­ting table, with cases of instru­ments to hand;

  Alfred's eyes widened at the sight of it, and an express­ion of triumph began to enliven his face. In another bay there was more the sugges­tion of a sculptor's studio, with moulds and casts lying about on tables. Farther on were large presses, and size­able electric furnaces, but most of the gear other than the simplest conveyed little to me.

  “No cyclo­tron, no electron-micro­scope; other­wise, a bit of every­thing,” — I remarked.

  “You're wrong there. There's the electron — Hullo! Your friend's off.”

  Alfred had kind of homed at the ope­rating-table. He was peer­ing intently all around and under it, presum­ably in the hope of blood­stains. We walked after him.

  “Here's one of the chief primers of that ghastly imagin­ation of yours,” Dixon said. He opened a drawer, took out an arm and laid it on the operat­ing table. “Take a look at that.”

  The thing was a waxy yellow, and with­out other colour­ing. In shape, it did have a close resem­blance to a human arm, but when I looked closely at the hand, I saw that it was smooth, unmarked by whorls or lines: nor did it have finger-nails.

  “Not worth bother­ing about at this stage,” said Dixon, watch­ing me.

  Nor was it a whole arm: it was cut off short between the elbow and the shoulder.

  “What's that?” Alfred inquired, pointing to a pro­tru­ding metal rod.

  “Stainless steel,” Dixon told him. “Much quicker and less expen­sive than making matrices for pressing bone forms. When I get stan­dard­ized I'll probably go to plastic bones: one ought to be able to save weight there.”

  Alfred was looking worriedly disap­pointed again; that arm was convin­cingly non-vive­sect­ional.

  “But why an arm? Why any of this?” he demanded, with a wave that largely included the whole room.

  “In the order of askings: an arm — or, rather, a hand —because it is the most useful tool ever evolved, and I certainly could not think of a better. And ‘any of this’ because once I had hit upon the basic secret I took a fancy
to build as my proof the perfect creature — or as near that as one's finite mind can reach.”

  “The turtle-like creatures were an early step. They had enough brain to live, and produce reflexes, but not enough for con­struc­tive thought. It wasn't necessary.”

  “You mean that your ‘perfect creature’ does have con­struc­tive thought?” I asked.

  “She has a brain as good as ours, and slightly larger,” he said. “Though, of course, she needs expe­rience — edu­ca­tion. Still, as the brain is already fully devel­oped, it learns much more quickly than a child's would.”

  “May we see it — her?” I asked.

  He sighed regret­fully.

  “Everyone always wants to jump straight to the finished product. All right then. But first we will have a little demon­stra­tion — I'm afraid your friend is still uncon­vinced.”

  He led across towards the surgical instru­ment cases and opened a preserv­ing cup­board there. From it he took a shape­less white mass which he laid on the opera­ting table. Then he wheeled it towards the elec­trical appa­ra­tus farther up the room. Beneath the pallid, sagging object I saw a hand pro­tru­ding.

  “Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “Bill's ‘bolster with hands’!”

  “Yes — he wasn't entirely wrong, though from your account he laid it on a bit. This little fellow is really my chief assis­tant. He's got all the essen­tial parts; alimen­tary, vascular, nervous, respi­ra­tory. He can, in fact, live. But it isn't a very exci­ting exis­tence for him — he's a kind of test­ing motor for trying out newly-made appen­dages.”

  While he busied himself with some electrical connections he added:

  “If you, Mr. Weston, would care to exam­ine the speci­men in any way, short of harm­ing it, to convince your­self that it is not alive at present, please do.”

  Alfred approached the white mass. He peered through his glasses at it closely, and with dis­taste. He prodded it with a ten­ta­tive fore­finger.

  “So the basis is elec­trical?” I said to Dixon.

  He picked up a bottle of some grey con­coc­tion and measured a little into a beaker.